


The Most Lascivious of Curiosities

by Garden_Beast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal experimentation, F/M, M/M, sort of like a Dante's inferno story into kink, vanilla!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6006730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garden_Beast/pseuds/Garden_Beast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As experienced as John is in finding the right imagery to get himself off, it’s only inevitable that he begins to expand his sexual repertoire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Variation on Consensual Voyeurism

John Watson had seen the rise of the internet porn industry and the subsequent perverse fascination with sodomy that came with it. He’d watched thin American girls get plowed with aplomb for years, having purchased physical videos back in the day-- but only within the last few years had they gone to seedy little studios and get more than one hole stuffed. Wanking in his room back in Baker during a quiet evening, John Watson spread his legs on the newly spacious bed-- he’d been unpacking for ages that day, wondering how on earth he and Mary had managed to collect so much  _ shit  _ in their failed marriage-- and clicked a promising image of a brunette little thing moaning to the camera. 

 

She was thin-- they were getting thinner, he thought-- and her legs splayed in ways John’s hadn’t been able to in years. He undid his zip, balancing the laptop on his knees, and skipped the introductory groping; no need for foreplay when there was only himself to please, and he wasn’t feeling quite indolent enough for the tease. He skipped to the inevitable oral sex performed on the bird, and-- oh, no. The bloke on-screen was barely touching her with his tongue, doing that whole unattractive… tapping thing? He skipped forward a little further, and, “Yeah, that’s it,” he was sliding into her pink little cunt like it was nothing. John gripped himself, just held himself tight. The slope of her back as she took it in, the cute jiggle of her arse as his hips slapped against her-- John would reach forward and hold her hips, lean forward and tell her how  _ good  _ she was, how hot she was on his cock. His hand began rocking up and down his prick in a slow rhythm. On screen, the bloke sped up, slapped the girl’s arse with one hand and grabbed onto her buttock with the other, letting out a broken little moan from that gorgeous little throat, and-- pulled on her hair. Oh, no, no thanks-- John exited that tab and found another, seemingly gentler one after only a cursory glance of the site’s homepage. 

 

This time, her full lips were open in a moan. Her face was turned toward the camera, but the rest of her torso was pressed against the bedding, her arse in the air, her whole body rocking back and forth. Yeah, that was it-- her eyes were closed, her whole body was relaxed, she let out breathy little ‘Yeah, baby’s every few minutes, and John quickly regained his rhythm as that tight little cunt took and took and took everything she could, had some lucky bloke’s prick driving deep,  _ deep  _ into her-- arse. 

 

That was no vagina being fucked, John Watson didn’t need an MD to know that. 

 

He was half a second and a screen’s width away from clicking out of that tab, and yet-- God, that face of hers. Those wet lips, open and loving every ounce of what she was taking, the occasional ‘Just like that honey,’ the ‘fuck yes’-- the curves on her. Well. 

 

John Watson licked his lips. Glanced quickly at the door, as if someone would storm in and accuse him of watching filth-- and leaned back from his laptop, watched that woman clutch the sheets below her, watched her face contort and twist, saw in the rocking of her body that the thrusts had slowed to a stop. A hand dipped on screen to brush at the soft skin of her back, and a masculine voice asked softly, ‘You alright, baby?’ 

 

A pause. The hand on screen rubbed little circles into her back as she evidently recollected herself-- ‘Keep going.’ 

 

‘You sure?’ 

 

‘Yeah.’ 

 

The screen cut to her wide arsehole, evidently newly lubed, and still John Watson could only wonder at the capabilities of the human body. Sure, there were nerve endings in the anus, but not in or directly around the organs connected to it-- and, considering the effort required to keep the sex sanitary, safe, and, well, not painful-- it wasn’t really worth it, was it? It wasn’t as if there was the payoff of the prostate for women, either. Still, the bloke’s prick drove into her, slowly and gently, and offscreen was an explicitly feminine moan. 

 

She was enjoying this. She  _ loved  _ it, didn’t she? John skipped ahead to see her face again, those full lips, and, now that she was finally settled on her back, her gorgeous big tits. Her arms and head were thrown back in ecstasy, her legs splayed wide for him, she was begging him to push harder, go faster, and in his mind John could only oblige. While on screen she was pounded into the mattress, John imagined that he was the one doing the pounding: pushing savagely in and out, squeezing those thick breasts and sucking on the soft skin of her neck, running his hands down her body and holding her, fingers digging into that supple skin of hers-- fucking into that tight, hot hole, taking her, pleasuring her as only he could-- 

 

“Yeah, Sweetheart,” John whispered into the empty room, hand tugging hard at his foreskin, “take it, take it, take--” 

 

___

 

It had to have been an amateur video, last week-- most studios were usually outright violent with their girls these days, irritating the skin around their genitals such that the reproductive organs themselves had to have been rubbed raw. He’d tracked down the video again, and found that his little deduction was correct-- the profile hosting the video was owned by a couple Canada, and they were prodigious cinematographers: they posted every Tuesday on the dot, to an apparently eager and loyal fanbase. 

 

John leaned back on his bed, sipped at the glass of ale he’d set on his nightstand, and clicked play. 

 

There she was again, her fingers dipping idly into her wet little cunt; she was near spread eagle to the camera, evidently impaled from behind on a thick prick. John’s zip was down before the pair even started moving. 

 

This time, it was slow-- he only nudged in and out of her, while she bit at the back of her hand as if to retain some modicum of privacy. John watched the bloke’s balls shift just a bit as he pressed in, in, and the girl finally moaned, hard, evidently biting down on her hand.

 

She loved it; that much was evident. She rocked her hips in tandem with her partner’s, let out the softest little ‘ah’s as he worked her, slowly, closer to orgasm. Ratcheting up the tension, she begged him, her broken little voice stuttering through thick lips, ‘Please Baby, just a little--” and the bloke, absolutely devious, stopped moving entirely. 

 

John’s hand stopped. The pause was excruciating. 

 

She slapped at his arm, a little whine bubbling out, before tugging at him. He had to ease her back, slowly, with little calming strokes at her cunt, to lie back, to relax again, to spread her legs, revealing the  _ obscene  _ stretch of her anus around her partner’s cock, glistening and tight, the skin soft and exposed… John tugged harder on himself. Completely vulnerable. To the elements, to her partner, to the camera in front of her, she was-- she was outright flaunted by the illicit spread of her legs, the wetness dripping down her thighs and between her arse cheeks. She was on show for the world, utterly and completely in her costar’s power, and the very thought made John’s face hot. 

 

After an age, the girl sat up sat up-- pressed her weight down on him, and just-- God. She rode him, tits and belly bouncing, taking her pleasure as she well-fucking-pleased… John Watson was finished in record time, deflating on the pillows of his bed. Setting his laptop aside and drifting off for a quick nap, he couldn’t help but wonder at the overwhelming sensitivity of even the filthiest places of the human body. 

 

___

 

One Charles Langtree had stepped into the clinic on a cloudy Tuesday afternoon, and Doctor John Watson, labcoat and all, was expected to put two gloved fingers into the bloke’s arsehole. It was of course a perfectly average checkup for Langtree-- get his blood pressure, check his heartbeat, shine a light down his throat and ear canals, plus the eyes-- and stick two up his arse, checking for any abnormal (e.g. cancerous) bumps. It was all very routine, honestly, and, apart from the hemming and hawing on his patients’ parts, it was a relatively quick procedure. The man bends over, John lubes and loosens him up, feels for any abnormalities, and it’s done within minutes. No one loses their dignity. Usually. 

 

Charles Langtree was an exemplary patient so far, inasmuch as he didn’t complain or winge-- come the prostate exam, his trousers and pants were down, he leaned forward, and John Watson gently prodded at his anus after a quick, “It’s gonna be a little chilly for a second.” 

 

After the initial lube-up, the quick one-two finger insertion, John asked a doctorly “Feeling okay?”

To which he received no response. He waited a beat before, “Mister Langtree?”

 

“Yeah,” his voice was tight, breathy. “Just-- anything to, ah, be worried about?”

 

John frowned, feeling around for the prostate and, finding it, swirling his finger ‘round the area for any unusual bumps. “ _ Fuck _ ,” Langtree groaned, leaning onto the table and pressing his arse onto John’s fingers as if-- 

 

“Right, that’s enough.” John pulled out quickly, peeling off his glove and racing toward his chart, “Yeah, you’re, ah, fine, nothing to worry about on that field-- area, er. Side.” 

  
Another mortifying pause, and John Watson was most certainly beelining toward the nearest pub after today. “Sorry about that,” Langtree pulled up his pants and trousers before running a hand through his hair, “You know how it is, all the sensitivity-- nerve endings and the like.” 

 

“Mm.” 

 

That night, John Watson got himself absolutely pissed just for the hell of it. 


	2. First and Second Hand

At worst, he could describe it as a medical exam. If he didn’t like it, found it uncomfortable or unpleasant in any way, he’d take his fingers out, wash his hands, and similarly wash his hands of the matter. It was fine. It was… an experiment, was all. He was curious, and sating said curiosity. He was just, well, just-- dammit, it looked like a damned good time. There. It was hardly unhealthy. Hell, there were perks-- if he found any changes in the shape and feel of his prostate, he’d be the first to know. John ran a quick hand through his hair before undressing, oddly shy despite being alone in his own room.

 

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly; made himself wait. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly-- and therefore with almost cautious slowness unzipped himself and slipped out of his jeans. He licked his lips before pulling down his white pants and crawling onto his bed, feeling the cotton sheets on his legs. Just an experiment. He closed his eyes, breathed in, and turned to reach for the Vaseline.

 

With an ample amount of jelly on his pinky, John closed his eyes, turned onto his side, and rubbed around the little ring that made up his anus. He used his forefingers to stroke his perineum, to ease himself into the act of inserting an object into a strictly one-way opening-- and found himself relaxing. It felt good, stimulating himself, his experiment briefly forgotten; stimulating the prostate through the thickness of fat and perineal muscle. Even with so much between that organ and his fingers, he was still so _sensitive._

 

He licked his lips before pressing his pinky gingerly inside his anus, stopping himself the moment his fingertip breached him.

 

He paused a beat; waited through another.

 

It felt as if he was shitting backwards.

 

Was this what all the hype was about? He shifted his finger in a little further, before pulling it back; repeated the process once or twice and felt strangely… Full? The sensation was neither pleasant or awful, and John, mildly hopeful, soldiered on. He pressed just the slightest bit deeper; gently prodded at the muscle just inside him, and found that it felt-- well. Not _good_ , necessarily. Different. He felt tight, his body stretching against the slight intrusion inside him. Despite himself, his prick rose to the apparent challenge, plumping up just a bit at the outright strange sensation.

 

John pressed just a smidge deeper, finding that the push-pull of his finger inside him-- _that_ \-- wasn’t bad. Slowly, he pulled out, rocking his hips against the not-quite-sexual sensation. With his index and middle fingers he once more reached down, rubbed idly at his perineum, and, oh, that made for a nice mix. The stretch of his bum, the sparks of sensation just around it; John rocked between the two tactile pleasures, pleasantly surprised at the ease and _pleasantness_ of the whole affair; a part of him was surprised he’d not tried this sooner.

 

John resumed his cautious pistoning at his backside, this time with his index and middle fingers-- finally giving in and throwing his left hand into the fray. Rolling onto his back, he gave his right hand one long lick and grabbed his prick.

Pressed his finger in a little deeper, wriggling around for an exploratory feel of the tightness, the strangely nostalgic hot-wet-slick feel of his organs on his bare fingertip, all too reminiscent of a woman’s touch-- but lacking, in a way. There was no familiar squeeze to meet his wandering fingertips; instead, if he pressed on the tissue inside of him, it would simply… Bend to his will.

 

It made sense in a way, the medical professional in him considered: once he’d progressed past the anal sphincter, there was simply no more muscle with which he had to contend.

 

He was testing the limits of this interesting fact first hand finding when he stumbled upon his own prostate.

 

Lightning might as well have struck him; his vision went white, his back arched, and John Watson briefly forgot himself. He released pressure, took deep, _deep_ calming breaths, and waited until he regained some semblance of composure before continuing. This time, he went in with care, gently (gently) sliding his finger around that particular bundle, working his fingers in little circles ‘round the sensitive lump.

 

Well. Feeling it, at least, he knew he didn’t have any bumps to be concerned about.

 

Slowly he pressed against it, felt the slick of lube against his anal passage, and that wasn’t ‘bad’ by any stretch of the imagination. He pulled his fingers out, slowly; pressed them back in. Out and in, out and in, he started a slow rhythm, gently pumping into himself.

 

In. Tightness, the rawness of his own fingers in such a _sensitive_ fucking place, yes-- Out. An effortless wet slide that had John pressing his face into his pillow just to hide the groan. He rolled his hips to the rhythm, resumed his work on his prick (when had he stopped?) and took the outright alien pleasure all the way to-- all-- all the way to--

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

___

 

“You’re scrapped for money, John, honestly-- either order from Angelo’s, you know he’ll deliver for us--or just take my card.” This was the third time in as many weeks they’d argued over cash (albeit not the usual _kind_ of argument over money) and John only narrowed his eyes and tightened his jaw. Anyone with a modicum of social skill might take that as a hint to drop the subject, but Sherlock Holmes had a certain talent of blithely ignoring these subtle hints. “You know what I always get,” Sherlock nudged his card toward John, trapped as it was between two fingers, in perhaps the most priggish, condescending way John had ever seen a man offer money.

 

He left without the card, thank you very much.

 

It would be later in the evening when Sherlock would mention the most recent failure on the part of the Scotland Yard. “I nearly had an interesting case today,” he sighed over Angelo’s evening special, before popping a tortellini in his mouth and continuing mid-chew, “It was a biochemist studying the effects of toxins in mammals, their chemical makeup, unfortunately.”

 

“Unfortunately?”

 

“He used the actual toxins on his victims-- creative, certainly, but in its own way a bit artless, no?”

 

“Are you really going to argue that a serial killer was _artless_ in taking lives?” John asked, laying down his fork.

 

“I’m going to argue that he could’ve put some work into hobbies. He’d make it more interesting for the people catching him.”   
  
John barked a laugh at that. “And just what toxins was he working with?”

 

“Oh, some blue-ringed octopus. The toxin was determined in the toxicology report, so after some mild investigation there was--”

 

“Really? You needed to investigate it?” John asked, setting his plate on the coffee table and leaning back against his armchair. “Shouldn’t you know the moment you find a paralyzed body covered in its own vomit? Those are hardly common symptoms.” And apparently John had misstepped, because His Nibs tightened his mouth and glared away, clearly on the verge of a sudden strop. There was a good pause before John continued, “It’s, what-- obvious, isn’t it? At least that you’re dealing with some unique sort of poison or venom.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, before setting his plate on the coffee table. “Certainly in retrospect,” Sherlock corrected. “It’s a bit different when you’re in front of a dead body that seems to have only died of respiratory failure.”

 

Ah. “True,” John admitted, “Did you get the toxicology report?”

 

This was when Sherlock regained his colour. “No, actually. There were punctures in the victims’ thighs, fresh enough to lead me to at least a semblance of a conclusion. A combination, evidently, of assault and murder.”   


Jesus Christ. “And he’s caught?”

 

Sherlock grinned, leaning forward. “He admitted to decreasing the dosage with every victim. He wanted to see how little was required to kill his victims-- and how much longer a lower dose would take to take effect. It wasn’t difficult to track down the victims’ similarities; all were women with internet dating accounts.”   


“Right,” John ran a hand through his hair. Those poor people, in the last moments of their lives…

 

“He’s detained, and not nearly smart enough to get out. He was planning on getting to nearly twenty-- he’s only managed two.”   


That really shouldn’t have been a relief. And yet-- “Good. The other women are alright?”

 

“Presumably.” Sherlock leaned back and threw one leg over his other, crossing them, the imperious fuck.

 

John couldn’t help but snort, leaning forward into his hands; his flatmate was nothing if not callous. Ah, shit-- for the umpteenth time that week, his arse itched; the skin near his anus was dry and irritated, causing him to shuffle uncomfortably in his seat.

 

“You should’ve come with,” Sherlock spoke, voice softer. “You’d have liked it-- we could’ve gone over the chemical makeup of venoms, we--”  
  
“You know I’ve already exceeded my sick days limit for the month. I’m already on shaky ground with the clinic as it is.”

 

Sherlock looked down, leaned back once more. The lamplight was warm tonight, made his skin look a bit less ethereal than usual-- that bluish milky glow he usually sported was replaced by the amber light reflected off his skin, and something about the whole mess made him look so human, so touchable-- his face twisted into something wry and comical as he spat, “Money,” with as much contempt as he could seemingly muster.

 

“Mm, lets me live here,” John shot back. “We’ve already cut back as it is.”

 

“Too much, don’t you think?”

 

“Hm?” John was leaning toward his lukewarm tea at the coffee table, just about to raise it to his lips--

 

“The lube you’re using for your new ‘experiments’ has propylene glycol, a cheap skin irritant. There are better brands, John, honestly.” Sherlock carded his hand through his hair as if he hadn’t just brought up John’s very private sexual proclivities.

 

It was a miracle John didn’t do a spit take.

  



End file.
